Of Princes and Parasites
by Sami-Fire
Summary: Prussia's birthday takes a sharp downturn when things don't go how he expects them to.


Author's Notes:

This fic is pretty old now- I wrote it in August. Nonetheless, I think it's a pretty good fic, so better late than never. Comments and reviews are always appreciated.

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The sun rose on a day that Gilbert deemed the most awesome of days. On this day, hundreds of years ago, he came into being as the most incredible nation the world would ever know: Prussia. What reason was there not to worship him on this most glorious of days? Surely, even little brother West would have something to say about it!

The birthday boy- no, the birthday MAN- woke up in his room in Ludwig's basement, a devilish-looking smile spreading across his face as he imagined all the people coming and wishing him happy birthday (and a thousand more). People would ask how old he was now, and he'd laugh and say that by now, he had no idea, and they'd all be amazed to be in the company of someone with such a long history. How many candles would they have to put on his cake, anyway? It wasn't like most cakes had room for hundreds of candles. Oh, yes, and there would have to be beer. Lots and lots and lots of beer. It was going to be one hell of a birthday, and he was going to make the best out of it.

After taking his signature bird out of its cage and putting it on its favorite roost on his head, Gilbert made his way upstairs. He was only a little surprised to find that Ludwig wasn't there; that tightass's work always came first nine times out of ten. Well, at the very least, maybe he'd left something for his beloved older brother. A cursory search revealed nothing out of the ordinary, and a search that involved plenty of picking up and looking under and behind assorted objects turned out to be similarly fruitless. The refrigerator showed no signs of a cake or any extra beer for a party. _Maybe he just went out to get the beer and the cake and stuff,_ Gilbert thought as he took a seat at the kitchen table and slumped over a little.

The few minutes he spent waiting slowly turned into an hour, which in turn became two hours. Two hours where no one entered the house. Two hours where he hadn't even heard so much as a word from his brother. Gilbert idly fidgeted around with his clothes and any small objects he could get his hands on, occasionally stopping to let his bird walk around the table. He considered the possibility that the other nations that wanted to celebrate his birthday with him (and really, who wouldn't?) were sleeping in and just hadn't woken up yet, but that didn't quite add up, for he had gotten up late himself. If they were going to come, they would have gotten here sooner.

Then again, Gilbert didn't need other nations around to celebrate his birthday, oh no. Really, what better company could he have other than his awesome self (and his awesome little bird)? Being alone was AWESOME. Or at least, that was what became Gilbert's mantra as he let another hour slip by. He could celebrate his birthday all by himself, yes indeed. Other people would just wreck his little party. Nothing could go wrong if it was just him and his bird. Sure, it was a little quiet and there wasn't much to look at, but what difference did that make? Being alone was AWESOME. Being alone was AWESOME. Being alone was AWESOME.

When he woke up from what seemed to be a brief nap, he realized that he had been sitting at the kitchen table for four hours, waiting for guests, presents, and festivities that never came. One word permeated Gilbert's every thought: _empty_. The house was empty, empty, empty. It was his birthday, an occasion to be celebrated, and yet there was no one there. Not even any preparations for a party had been made to fill that empty space. Somehow, the world had ignored the presence of Gilbert Beilschmidt. Somehow, the man who claimed he was fine all by himself was completely and thoroughly _lonely_. The ugly words rang through his head: _It's my birthday. No one came to celebrate. Not even my own brother acknowledged it. I've wasted four hours waiting for people that aren't coming. I'm all alone_. Stunned by his own revelations, he slowly made his way away from his seat. He stared into space for a while, contemplating the sheer _quiet_ of the house. Under the pressure (or lack there of), something snapped inside him. He opened the fridge, grabbed all the remaining beer he could find, and then ran downstairs, back to his little corner of Hell, back to the basement.

Gilbert's little yellow bird tweeted happily on its roost, blissfully unaware of what was going through the head it was sitting on. The fact that the bird's tweeting had been the only noise he had heard all day only made Gilbert feel worse. He crushed an emptied beer can and half-heartedly threw it at the wall of his room, a target that the can didn't even make it to. The lethargy and apathy that had taken over after the initial shock parted and made way for anger. No one treated the great Gilbert Beilschmidt like this, and sure as hell not on his birthday! The whole day had just been a horrible, horrible joke. That notion gave him another idea: his whole situation was a joke. He had been one of the mightiest nations the world had ever known, and here he was, reduced to a freeloader living in his brother's basement- the basement of the very nation _he_ helped to raise! He was a prince, not a parasite! And yet he was treated like dirt, even by his own brother, who would chide him for just taking what he wanted as he pleased. _I am a prince, not a parasite. I like the sound of that,_ thought Gilbert as he picked up another mantra of madness. He lived in Ludwig's house, now, and that guy was going to have to learn to share with his brother! It wasn't like he ever took an excess of anything. Taking just about all the remaining beer from the fridge? It was for a special cause! It was his goddamn _birthday._

Another can of beer joined the first some distance away from the wall. _I'm a prince, not a parasite. I'm a prince, not a parasite_. _I'm a prince, not a parasite_, Gilbert chanted in his mind as he tried to keep himself stable. And yet, the magic of the mantra seemed to be failing. What kind of prince lived in his brother's basement, with only a bird for company, and drowned his sorrows while the rest of the world grunted "Prussia who?" at the few people who remembered that his country ever existed?

…His brother's basement. Basements were where people put things when they couldn't find any other place to put them. He _raised_ that boy, and now he was just a miscellaneous object to be shoved away in some dark corner? For nearly two hundred years, he raised Ludwig from a small, frail boy into the strong man everyone knew him as, not to mention overseeing the growth of his nation from the German Confederation to Germany as it was known today. _I took care of that boy. I protected him and made him strong. So why don't I get any credit?_ That little ingrate! How could he treat his dear brother as such a nuisance? It seemed like every other thing Ludwig said to Gilbert was shouting him down over something: don't be so loud, don't eat so much, don't drink so much, just get out of my way because it's not like you're actually doing anything anyway. Where was his respect?

Fine, then. Ludwig didn't need to be factored into the explanation of Gilbert's greatness. Perhaps just Prussia alone would be a satisfying argument. When he represented Prussia, he conquered and kicked ass like there was no tomorrow. If he wasn't stomping Austria, he was stomping France. If it Old Fritz wasn't in charge, Otto von Bismarck was (those people in between them? Never mind them). And yet such power was undone by two world wars and some paperwork- quite quickly compared to how long it had lasted. Then there was what happened after, when he had decided to hole up with Ivan for the sake of self-preservation. At least he'd have some nation to represent. That decision proved to be a poor one, for all that came of it was decades of abuse at the mad Russian's hands and eventually getting dumped into Ludwig's basement after the reunification of Germany. How far the mighty had fallen… what would Old Fritz have to say?

Undoubtedly, the old man's review would not be a good one. Gilbert could see him, clear as day, shaking his head in disappointment. Every failure hit Gilbert at once as he reviewed the timeline of his fall in his head, over and over. Once, he had been impossible to ignore; now, no matter how loud he was (and of course, he was always plenty loud) or what impressive stunts he pulled, everyone passed him by. He was a historical artifact stored in someone's basement and left to collect dust.

The realizations hurt. Oh, how they hurt. The man who used to be on top of the world had resorted to biting down on his fingers to keep the sobs from coming out. No, he would not give anyone the satisfaction of having him break down over his fall, even if no one would see it. The thing to do was to stay strong, and composed, and confident that someday, even Gilbert Beilschmidt could have a half-decent birthday with no painful introspection. He'd come back into the limelight somehow. How could he not? He was _Gilbert Beilschmidt_, the awesome nation of Prussia. So what if he was now a "former" nation? He was awesome, and he always would be awesome!

Two streams of tears that felt steaming hot coursed down his face. His mouth was filled with the taste of copper as he clamped down on one of his fingers a little too hard. Blood, red as sunset, warmer than wine, the salty summer brine of glory from days long past.

Later that night, Ludwig came home to hear a dreadful row coming from the basement. With his mind completely set on quelling whatever squall was going on down there, he marched down to Gilbert's door, a head full of steam. His ire fled him once he finally opened the door to find his brother sitting slumped over on his bed, tears streaming down his face, blood running from the bite on his finger, a small pile of beer cans at his feet, and his little yellow bird pecking at him, as if to check if he were still alive. Gilbert's head jerked up the minute he heard the door open, and Ludwig was on the receiving end of a glare so _malicious,_ so like a that of a wounded animal's, yet so full of pain and indignation, that he slammed the door with the same abruptness that he had opened it with.

_Good God, what have we done to him?_


End file.
